


Somewhere Deep Within

by sassygeek101



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, M/M, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Singer-songwriter AU, contains original songs with actual tune in them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-11-12 18:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11167236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassygeek101/pseuds/sassygeek101
Summary: “Why do we write music?”“To feel.”“Then why do we write songs?”“To understand,” Yuuri replies, looking him in the eye. “Sometimes, it is the only way to speak when words aren’t enough.”In which Viktor composes, Yuuri writes, and together – they can be more than what they offer.





	1. we find ourselves

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to all of my friends – both in Tumblr and in real life – who have supported and encouraged me to write this idea, especially to JMonCheri – amazing author and wonderful friend, for being my beta in this story. 
> 
> I am very much aware that this isn’t the first – and nor it will be the last- fic that features the AU of this kind. However, for a change, the lyrics you will see in this chapter – and the rest of this fic- were written with actual tunes in them. Feel free to click the link and listen to them, though of course what you’ll hear far from what you (and I) imagine Yuuri would sound like. Though like Yuuri, these songs don’t have any musical instrument arranged with them. It’s just my voice, tune, and the words with meaning.
> 
> Thank you and I hope you enjoy reading this.

 

 

There is a man in a coffee shop.

How long he has been there sitting down the far corner, no one knows. But he seems shy, opting to nurse his cup in silence instead. Hot – judging by the delicate porcelain and the little steam that seem to ooze from it.

He is alone.

“Cute isn’t he?” her co-worker says from behind, and Arata hums in agreement. Why he wasn’t crowded with friends, or talking swiftly to some executive board over Skype, no one knows. Most of the time it's the pretty ones that always never, _ever,_ leave without company.

But somehow, he does.

 “He seems nice.”

And well groomed too, judging by the simple yet fitting shirt that hugs his chest.

Though there isn’t much else to say about him, of course. After all, the rest of the man’s face is hidden beneath his hair. His lowered head doesn’t help improve the view either. But there’s just something in the way he holds his silence and the space around him that you can’t help but _look_.

“Didn’t he order blueberry muffins?”

“Yeah, he did.” Seeing the slumped back and bags underneath the eyes, Arata sighs in sympathy. _Must be the mid-term exams coming up._

 “Hey, why don’t you man the counter for me and I’ll get it for you.”

Her co-worker lights up.

“Thank you Arata, you’re a real life saver.”

Arata waves her co-worker off as she moves back to fetch the man’s order. “Don’t worry, we’ve got all the time we need.”

It was after all just past two in the afternoon. Apart from the plump woman wearing headsets, the lanky green sweater teen and the aforementioned man, the stools and rounded tables are empty. Though the shop is located in a prime spot, most costumers usually come two to three hours later- just in time for a quick bite and vent out their worries with a carb induced pastry after a hard day’s work. 

Safe to say, it was quiet. _Peaceful._ The afternoon made calm by the sweet lulling tune of the violin.

Said peace was however, broken, when out of nowhere a gaggle of young people barge in, the slammed doors screeching in protest but still giving in. Dressed in t shirts and jeans they are not far from her age, Arata thinks, but their loud chatter carries a certain kind of childish excitement. In her six months duty as a part time barista Arata has never seen someone so excited over a cup of coffee, especially one made by broke, stressed, college students.

But perhaps, it was never about the coffee.

Arata watches warily as they slowly approach the counter – only to turn toward the far corner where the man sits. Seeing them approach, the man looks up and _oh, he has the most beautiful pair of eyes._ The young people seem to notice this too, and somehow take it as a signal to speak all at once.

“I’m sorry, I hope we’re not interrupting you it’s that-“

“Hi! I’m so glad to meet you-“

“-we were walking down the road and we saw you-“

“-you’re such an inspiration-“

“-and I can’t believe my eyes so we had to go-“

“-I’ve bought all of your albums-“

“-oh my god, this is so surreal-“

“-I’ve been practicing your piece these days, your latest work is such a master piece-“

“-I still get earworms on that ad you made music for-“

“-Your selfie is my wallpaper and I’d offer you my first born for a picture of you and your smile-“

“Is that really you? I can’t believe-”

“What is going on?” Arata hears from her side, and turns to see her co-worker, a bewildered expression etched on her face. 

At this point everyone in the coffee shop is staring at the scene openly. Even the woman with her headsets shifts them a bit to hear more of the on-going commotion. Arata shrugs and returns her gaze on the man. Surprisingly he doesn’t look perturbed or disturbed by the jarring interruption to his solitude. In fact he seems calm – _too_ calm for Arata’s tastes, unless of course, being ambushed while nursing your afternoon coffee is the man’s kind of normal.

The chatter seems to go on forever, until the man clears his throat and the group is brought to a hilarious, almost terrifying, pause it is almost absurd. He smiles – a small quirk of his lips, and lets down his cup. For the first time since they came, the man speaks.

“How can I help you?”

 _He has a deep, warm voice._ Arata silently notes. _Has a slight accent too._

“Can we have an autograph?” A woman squeaks, thrusting a crinkled notebook in front of him.

“Maybe a photo too? To commemorate this wondrous event?” another suggests.

“Autograph?” Her co-worker repeats, whispering to herself. Arata could only mirror her furrowed brow as the man lets out a cheerful “Sure!”Still seated, he takes the offered pen and signs their notebooks, napkins and _wait is that a violin_ \- while the group circles him, eyes too eager and smiles reaching their ears. Arata tries to make sense of the man’s face, now smiling as someone from their group takes a photo of them all.  _He must be famous then._

Arata still tries to put a name to the face as the group bids the man farewell. They don’t even bother ordering anything for their trouble. Perhaps Arata ought to be thankful they left in the same way they came: loud and quick. The shop is quiet once more and the violin piece has ended, slowly transitioning to another, more frantic arrangement.

Arata barely remembers she has an order to serve. She slowly makes her way towards the man, the blubbery muffin in tow. His head is lowered once more, as if nothing happened and all was just a fevered dream they were all unwillingly part of.

“Sir, your order.”

“Ah, I was wondering when it would come, thank you.” The man nods as Arata sets the plate and the fork on the table. His cup is half empty and the steam is no longer there. It has already gone cold.

“Sir, may I ask you something?”

The man pauses, regarding her quietly. Arata doesn’t miss the brief momentary wonder written on his face, as if to be asked something so simple has never occurred to him. Thankfully, he nods just in time for Arata to quell the unsure churns of her stomach.

It was a brave query, usually she’d try to leave her customers alone, but _something_ about this man was painfully peculiar. It was if she was standing in front of an enigma, or sitting right in the eye of a storm. So Anata, hoping that she wouldn’t make a mistake, unclenches her fist, and utters what had been in her mind the entire time-

 

“Who _are_ you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Somewhere an ocean way, in a small and nondescript college hall, a young man is asked the same question.

_Who are you?_

He begins to stand and the chair grunts in displeasure. Heads swerve left and right and suddenly, twenty, thirty pairs of eyes meet his.  Pools of blue and brown, light and dark; they are all unfamiliar to him.  Somewhere a voice speaks, but it is almost made distant by the cacophony of thoughts that scream inside his head, all too fast, too incoherent to be understood, even by himself.

Unaware to the battle inside his head, the class remains silent.

“Hello,” the young man finally says, and almost immediately clears his throat. He quickly lowers his head, a rather poor substitute for the customary sign of respect he is more familiar with. He then raises it again. “My name is Katsuki Yuuri.”

A pause.  _Let’s try again._

“Yuuri Katsuki.”

Sometimes he forgets things are a done a bit differently here.

“Hello Yuuri,” their new professor repeats carefully, more to her own benefit than the class. Their previous one – a bald stooping figure who went by the name Mr. Higgins  – filed for early retirement right before the semester ended. _“ Stroke ,”_ the whispers seem to say. At this point Yuuri isn’t so sure what to think of the man’s replacement. She seems to be nervous herself. “ _Perhaps, a fresh graduate,”_ he internally muses.If there’s any consolation, the woman is trying her best to make a first impression, and the traditional if not cliché introduce yourself method is one way of doing it.

Unfortunately, Yuuri isn’t good at first impressions.

“Can you tell us a bit about yourself?”

Yuuri tries to hide his discomfort beneath the soles of his wobbling feet, his sneakers grating under his toes. Her eyes – cold morning grey- stare unkindly.

 “I like dogs,” Yuuri says and immediately blushes.  He hopes no one would care to notice. “I like listening to music. I also skate, dance, and write in my free time.”

“Oh?” The woman tilts her head curiously. “What kind of things do you write?”

“The usual stuff,” Yuuri vaguely mumbles. He doesn’t elaborate further.

The woman hums, and thankfully doesn’t press for more, opting to proceed to the next person instead.

Yuuri sighs in relief, glad to be sitting and not being the centre of attention once more.

The class goes on.

 

 

 

 

 

This is what the new professor – the woman whose eyes are cold, morning grey- doesn’t know:

Yuuri doesn’t just like dogs, he _adores_ them. You know, the type that makes you wonder if God had sent personal angels down to earth in the form of a wet nose and furry paws. But the one he owns, the one he loves, hasn’t seen him in a long, long time. Almost five years.

Flight tickets are expensive.

Yuuri enjoys skating. It was his childhood love, second only to ballet. In another world he might have been a professional skater. He might have even been a world champion five times over. But he was twelve when Ice Castle Hasetsu closed down- for good, and so he embraced his first love and never looked back. It is what brought him here, an ocean away, on a scholarship he desperately tries to maintain. He is good, apparently, but most of the time he finds it hard to see the person staring back in the mirror has the potential to be _better ._

Yuuri likes listening to music but he’s very picky of the ones he puts in his playlist. Some jazz, some rock, some obscure nineteen forgotten country pop- it doesn’t matter. Except of course, they have to mean something or have actual lyrics that make sense. Not you know, the random garbage they call songs these days. There are some who are genuinely, actively, well made and ear catching, but the others? Not so much.

Then there’s Viktor Nikiforov.

Who _is_ Viktor Nikiforov?

Well, it depends on whom you’re asking.

If you ask Google, it will tell you he is this generation’s Mozart, Schubert, and Paganini all rolled in a twenty seven year old silver haired Russian genius. He is a violinist by trade but is known to be the quite outstanding composer. Those who may not know his name know his works by melody and tune, his stage ranging from the opera house to the streets of St. Petersburg and into the humble speakers of phones, malls, and corner coffee shops. Through the years he has won numerous awards, of which include the Grammys, the prestigious Grand Prix, and even the highly coveted Polar Music Prize, not to mention the hearts of millions of fans around the world.

If you ask Instagram, the photos will tell you Viktor is not only blessed by his creative talent but also his silver locks, and handsome charm, making him the perfect lock screen photo. He is also the proud owner to an adorable brown poodle, Makkachin, whom he spoils at every chance.

If you ask his fans, they’ll tell you the violin is his soul, the hands his eyes that see beyond the obvious and his music an _experience_ you must not miss for the world _._ What sets him apart is the fact that he is highly respected by his classical leaning peers despite his youth. At the same time, he is dearly beloved by the highly electronic pop loving general public. When he took the world by storm at the age of sixteen in his breath taking adaptation of Tchaikovsky’s Lilac Fairy in solo violin, Russia was quick to anoint him her national hero and pride.

In other words, he is a living legend.

If you ask Yakov Feltsman, official manager and unofficial minder, he will tell you that no, Viktor is _not_ a genius but a stubborn, bald inducing man-child who does not know the difference between enough and too much. Ask Yuri Plisetsky, Russia’s next rising star, and he will probably tell you the exact same thing except with more curses and teenage angst. Ask someone with a similar name but goes by the surname of Katsuki and he will tell you he is an inspiration and a genius who has never failed to surprise him.

If you ask Viktor who he is – just as the girl in the coffee shop did – he will not gloat, he will not puff his chest and demand to know why you haven’t heard of him despite the fact the music that had been playing in the background the entire time was made by his very own fingers. No, he will introduce himself, in a polite way mothers would want their children’s lovers to do, and tell you he plays the violin and likes creating music. You might think there’s something missing, something left unspoken in the air, and yet most of the time you will accept his answer and leave him be, even if the nagging suspicion stays in your gut for the whole day. This is what Arata did, what Arata felt, though she eventually asked Google much, much later. You already know the answer to that.

But if you really want to know what the great, living legend Viktor Nikiforov thinks of himself, there’s no one better to ask but Makkachin, his very own poodle. Unfortunately, Makkachin is a dog and unless you literally are one too, you will never understand the meaning behind her many barks, grunts and howls.

Yet if you did, she will tell you this:

There are days when she wakes up to find her master staring in the mirror. For a man known to be filled with music the room is silent, save for her heaving breathing and panting. She does not know why he stands so still for far too long or why he looks so sad and so lost, and so she will nudge her furry head on his ankle hoping to get his attention. It does, and together they eat breakfast.

(He has this rather large dining room table, sitting proudly in his kitchen. Not too big, but big enough for Makkachin to crawl and play under. There was more than one chair; in fact he has four. There was a fifth one, but it had a broken leg and Viktor had to put it away. But even with all the space, all the chairs, he always ate alone. So Makkachin accompanied him, even her place is just under the table, right beneath his feet.)

Some days Makkachin finds herself the sole audience to an unfinished masterpiece in the living room, her ears already used to the music. Here her master is like the birds she spots on their walks around the block: mighty and free. His feet are planted on the ground but his violin becomes his wings. Here, he soars.

“Did you hear that, Makka?” He says, eyes alight and she would boof appreciatively as a certain shine fills his eyes. She always wishes her master would understand how much she likes to hear him sing, how much she likes to see him soar with his wings. “Was it good enough? Was it?”

But then too often an invisible arrow pierces the soul and so he stops, quite abruptly, the bird now bruised and hurting. Except, no one knows where it came from; there are no visible wounds and here there is no audible crash. There is only silence, and too often, the silence stretches long. Makkachin will then ask if he is hungry, if he is hurt, if something’s wrong, if there’s anything she could do. Instead he will set his wings aside to smile and coo, and pat her languid back. He will ask her the most mundane of things – are you hungry, are you sleepy, did you lost your toy again, it must be somewhere beneath the couch. He will never reply in the way she expects him to because humans like him can’t understand dogs like her and they probably never will.

 But that’s okay.

He is Her Human and she still loves him, in the way most dogs do: with pure, loyal, absolute devotion.

Then there are days when Makkachin aches, because Viktor thinks she can’t understand when she _does ._ She really does. Those days are when worse comes to worse and everything becomes too much that he _breaks_. It isn’t enough for him to fall all apart together, but it is enough to chip the mask he had been wearing for so long to confess his greatest fears and deepest desires, including what he truly thinks of himself.

Makkachin knows that while simply being with him every step of the way has already fulfilled her basic purpose, it isn’t enough. It is _never_  enough. She can only offer her soft brown fur for him to caress. She can only lick the salty tears before it graces her skin. She cannot take away the sadness or the aching longing that settles beneath the brilliant blue.

Viktor Nikiforov may be somebody in this world, but in his brilliant _blue_  eyes, he is nobody.

_Who are you, Viktor Nikiforov?_

 

Makkachin, the one and only entity who knows the cracks in his very soul, will answer for him.

 

He is a very, very lonely man.

 

 

 

 

Here’s the thing.

Yuuri Katsuki isn’t ashamed of what he writes. In a sense, he is proud of it. With each newly written phrase, each scribbled line is one step further from making his abstract thoughts a reality.

It’s like solving a jigsaw puzzle. You have an idea, an image in mind. To form it, you are given tiny little pieces – words, figure of speech, or the whole plethora of the English language or something, _anything_ at all. The challenge is finding the right combination. Sometimes everything is so obvious, sometimes not so much, and sometimes, you have to consider and reconsider several options before you find it: the perfect fit.

Thus, when you are finished writing a piece, when the puzzle is formed and now you have a clear, tangible image to touch and hold and admire– that is one of the most satisfying things in the world. You give so much of yourself; how can you not be proud of it?

But that’s the thing. You can’t just treat it like it’s a prize to parade or some piece of candy you can simply give away. Poems, songs, novels- you name it- they all come from the heart, and behind every word there’s a piece of the author that will always be there, forever preserved like a fossil in amber. This is why some writers are so reluctant to share it to the world; some would even go as far as developing their own language or lock in under some code to keep it close to them, literally, just so the world doesn’t see their jagged edges, the _cracks_ beneath their skin-

Unfortunately (and fortunately to his current – and future – fans, if there _were_ any), Yuuri Katsuki isn’t clever enough to do that. No, when it comes to him, the pen, and the paper, he is honest, and sometimes, way too much for his liking.

Still, a part of him can’t help but want to share his pieces, and so he does, occasionally. But he chooses his people, the ones he trust the most (the ones that wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t laugh, wouldn’t look at him with those eyes and try to make sense of the messed up anomaly he is.) They usually tell him – _it’s good, Yuuri-chan, it’s okay, sorry it’s not you it’s me you know I’m not good in English dear, it’s brilliant, oh my God Yuuri how do you even –_ and there comes a point that no matter what language, be it English and Japanese, the words tend to repeat themselves.

Then of course, there’s the recurring question:

How do you do it?

 _“_ How do you do _what?,”_ Yuuri would always ask afterwards, brows crunching in confusion.

 _This. That._ They would reply, and then gesture towards empty air instead, as if moving their hands would make up for the lack of words.

_As if it is enough._

 In a way, Yuuri _gets_ it. They want to know how he _does_ it , the words, the writing, the feeling, and he can’t blame them. Sometimes, he wonders it too, himself.

His answers - as always- would vary. Usually Yuuri would avoid the question; he would shrug and laugh awkwardly instead, deliberately crinkling his eyes, as if to say _I don’t know, I just do._ There are times, and too often they don’t happen, Yuuri would think about it, sit down (though not always literally) and explain how the piece came to be, step by step, complete with meaning. So far, it had just been Yuuko, and more recently Phichit, the latter after very much friendly pestering and support.

But what they don’t know, what Yuuri _doesn’t_ tell them, is that sometimes, it goes like this.

First, there must always be a special day. Most of the time this day is often a seemingly ordinary day, one of the three hundred sixty five days in the year that you’d expect to roll by quietly. Rarely is it as significant as February 14, December 25, or as memorable as November 29 (though who knows, it could happen. It really _might._ )

Second, the first few hours usually pass by a breeze, the calm eye in what actually is an approaching storm. He goes by the day’s activities as he would often do- focused, attentive, and quiet. If there’s any unifying factor for all these _special_ days, it’s that for a moment Yuuri laughs, whatever reason it may be, mundane or otherwise. In that precious split second, Yuuri thinks,  “ _I’m happy.”_

Then _it_  happens.

The moment of truth.

The slap of reality.

The turbulent winds that surround the eye and reveal the storm’s true nature.

Today, it comes in the form of sheets of long bond paper, red inks all over the place. _Like a bloodbath._

Perhaps, that observation has been more than accurate. Yuuri doesn’t need to look at the scores to know he has lost this one sided battle _again._

Never mind the fact that Celestino Cialdini, their Italian choreographer, has just informed him that morning of an opening he might like to audition. An all-male ballet retelling and adaptation of the classic story between Love and Soul; Celestino thought the role of Psyche suited the man. At first quiet, meek and foolish, later sensual, bold and daring- to convey two sides without exaggerating or diminishing the other comes the real challenge.

(Yuuri would wonder, very much later, how or why Celestino thought of him as so. Yuuri was quiet, meek, and _definitely_ foolish. Was there a sensual side of him that people saw that _he_ didn’t? If so, he might need to get better prescription glasses. Or maybe _they_ need to get better prescription glasses. Yuuri, in his own thoughts, wasn’t sensual, bold, or daring at all.

But Yuuri Katsuki was blind to many, _many_ things.

Under normal circumstances, a ballet production would choose its principal cast from their established pool of professional dancers and members. But sometimes, they do casting calls open to the public, and in this case the director wanted someone fresh and new to the stage. This didn’t happen so often, and it might just be the break he needed.

Yuuri, for once, agreed.

But no, he doesn’t think of this. He does not realize that of all the people in their program Celestino could have approached, he chose _him_  because  he saw something in Yuuri Katsuki that made him stand out, made him _different_  from the rest.

Instead Yuuri thinks,  “ _What a fool I’ve been to believe I could be something more.”_

Turning the damned piece of paper over the desk, he looks around. Chatters of fellow students blend into a white collage of indistinct noise. A sound of laughter, and he doesn’t need to turn back to see their smiles behind their faces. _Ah, the victors._

He looks down, and something starts to prickle in the corners of his eyes. _Don’t cry, Yuuri. You know why you’re here. You’ve been here again. You don’t deserve it._

That’s right. He, Yuuri Katsuki, struggling college student barely hanging on the edge his international scholarship thousands of miles away from home, doesn’t deserve the comfort of tears. Tears are for those who have fought the bitter fight, and lost. Yuuri knows that he too, fought the long way, but his battle is too small, too insignificant compared. Besides, he didn’t do enough.

He isn’t enough.

He is _never_ enough.

But see, it’s these _special_ days that he does it. It’s when tears are no option, and the comfort of food is out of the question, there’s only one thing Yuuri can turn to, especially when his feet are aching and he can no longer dance. It is one that wouldn’t judge, would welcome him with open arms regardless of how weak, tired, and broken he is.

Yuuri opens his notebook, wrinkled by use and age-

He begins to _write._

 

 

 

 

 

 “Vitya, I do hope you know what you’re doing,” Yakov Feltsman warns quietly, his voice tethering on the edge.

“I don’t,” Viktor cheerfully assures him. He didn’t know what he was doing for the whole majority of his life, but hey, look where he is now.

For the past hour the man has been looming over Viktor, the latter propped in one of the reclining chairs, one leg crossed on top of the other. They’re at one of Yakov’s offices- a modest space smacked right in the middle of St. Petersberg. An hour earlier Viktor had barged in unannounced, proclaiming he might just have “the greatest idea ever,” rudely interrupting Yakov’s quiet afternoon nap in the process. 

Viktor should have expected the verbal smack that followed.

In Yakov’s defense, when Viktor – afternoon nap interrupting, bald inducing man-child – says he has a “great idea,” it can only mean two things: either the next award winning masterpiece, or a disaster in the making.

Take in for example, the Grand Prix Banquet Incident That Shall Never Be Spoken™. It involved sixteen glasses of champagne, pole dancing, and inappropriate public declarations. Unfortunately it did not have cute drunk Japanese men, though in another world it might. Viktor is now banned from drinking anything but water without Yakov’s approval or constant watch.

 “But Yakov, album _with lyrics,_ ” Viktor almost whines. “Just imagine the headlines.”

“An album with lyrics is hardly newsworthy,” Yakov deadpans.

“But for Viktor Nikiforov – violin virtuoso, and composer – it _is ._ It’s something they won’t expect _,”_ Seeing his manager’s stony expression, Viktor’s expression falls a bit.

“Does the mere thought of an album with lyrics sound so revolting to you?”

“I never said it was,” Yakov grunts and Viktor immediately perks up. “What I don’t understand is _why_ we need to hold a contest for it.”

Viktor shrugs.  “I need a lyricist.”

“WE ALREADY HAVE ONE,” Yakov shouts and _Wow,_ Viktor didn’t know a uvula could be so big. “We have SEVERAL of them right in this very building, ALL award-winning, ready for your disposal-”

“Ah, if it could only be the same for the songs they make,” Viktor sighs.

“- and are contract obligated to stick to all your trouble.” 

Having said his piece, Yakov exhales not so quietly and resumes his spot- on impersonation of a Maori statue. If it were any other person, in the light of such statement, they would have been embarrassed.

But Viktor has no shame.

“I don’t like them. They’re not artistic,” Viktor says bluntly, and Yakov resumes his shouting.

 _Ah, it must be Uvulitis,_ Viktor thinks and tuts to himself. _Must buy throat lozenges later._

Viktor stares at his manager’s reddening face. He taps his lip in thought.

_Maybe add sunblock lotion too._

“Why don’t you write the lyrics yourself?”

Viktor sees the previous night flash before his eyes. Multiple balls of paper on the floor and Makkachin nearly choking on one of them, he shudders.   _Thank goodness she didn’t._  He shakes his head.

“Not my field of expertise.”

Yakov pinches the bridge of his nose, muffling a scream. Viktor leans forward, eyes twinkling.

“Think about it: you need me to release an album to bring back loses from last year’s failures. Well, _I_ need a lyricist to produce one.”

“Besides,” Viktor leans back, the chair squeaking amidst his innocent grin, “What’s the worst that could happen?”

 

 

 

 

 

Yakov eventually agrees. Viktor is ecstatic. Internally, Yakov finds himself slipping into the ice of despair. He must carry on, for the sake of his sanity and Mother Russia.

“Three conditions,” Yakov says, raising three fingers. “One, I will not be a part of this. You will be alone in planning the theme and mechanics for this contest, the screening of videos, and determining of winner. I will however, supervise your progress time to time and have the team screen your posts before publishing. Are we clear on this?”

Viktor nods enthusiastically. He will _definitely_ buy Yakov throat lozenges. _Does he like honey lemon?_

“Two,” Yakov continues, “you will _not_  reveal the true intent of this contest until you have a determined winner, which, should they work with you, must sign a contract and non-disclosure agreement under the management. You _may_ offer a prize of sorts, but this will also require my approval. Third, you only have a month-“

“A MONTH?!”

“-to find your _lyricist._ If you don’t have one by the end of thirty days, you will have to work with what we have.”

“Yakov-“

“It’s been three years,” Yakov cuts him off. “ _You_  are long due for another album. You cannot expect to perform Mendelssohn and movie scores forever. You may be a violinist, but you _are_  a composer. It’s high time you act like one.”

 

 

 

 

**Violin Virtuoso and Composer Viktor Nikiforov Holds Song Writing Contest**

By Connelly Vidal

 

 

> Music enthusiasts, and aspiring writers, ready your inks and music sheets. Here’s the chance to have the break of a lifetime.
> 
> Last Monday, five times consecutive Grand Prix Winner and recipient of the prestigious Polar Music Prize Viktor Nikiforov announced over his official Instagram, Twitter, and website a song writing contest with the theme _Love and Life_. **The prize** : an exclusive, once in a life time opportunity to meet the violin virtuoso in person and star in one of his future music videos. To any Nikiforov fan, this is the golden ticket to the famous but mostly elusive musician, despite his regular shows and fairly respectable online presence.
> 
> Naturally, this announcement has sparked rumors for an upcoming album, though nothing has been officially confirmed nor denied. Nikiforov’s last album, _Nights in St. Petersburg,_ won him three Grammys including Best Classical Instrument Solo and Best Contemporary Classical Composition. That was three years ago. Since then, Nikiforov has been conducting tours worldwide, performing in numerous theatres and opera houses. Most recently, he has lent his creative genius to produce _Stammi Viccino (Stay Close to Me)_ for MAPPA’s award winning animation _On Ice_ ,  the piece receiving critical acclaim and similar response to Ellie’s Theme from Pixar’s Up.
> 
> To enter the contest, one may post their song lyrics using the official hashtag **#NikiforovLoveandLifeSC** or email at [**vnikiforov@feltsmanproductions.com**](mailto:vnikiforov@feltsmanproductions.com). Deadline is next, next Monday, 11:59pm GMT, three weeks from the date of official announcement. For more information, visit his official website at vnikiforov.com
> 
>  
> 
> **Comments • [163]**

 

 

 

“Yuuri! Have you seen this?” Phichit thrusts his phone forward for Yuuri to see. Yuuri – sans glasses and in second arabesque position, blinks.

“Not sure I have,” Yuuri settles for a reply, still not moving an inch. Even from a close distance, the phone is blurry.

Needlessly to say, Phichit gasps dramatically.

“Yuuri, is that you?!”

“As far as I am aware of, yes,” Yuuri says, trying to maintain his balance.

Phichit is _not_ having it. “What happened to my best friend? Yuuri Katsuki, not updated with the latest events about Viktor Nikiforov, now _that’s_  breaking news.”

Thankfully they’re alone in the ballet studio. If not, Yuuri would have already died with embarrassment at the thought. Yuuri tries to clears his throat and his wild beating heart.

“Do you mean the song writing contest?”

“Yes!” Phichit exclaims, feet dancing around. “So?”

“So, what?”

Phichit looks at him expectantly. “Well, aren’t you going to join?”

Realizing resuming practice is probably moot since his heart is no longer in it, Yuuri settles back to basic first position, which was _way_ more comfortable. He looks Phichit in the eye, well _tries_  too, and says no.

“Why?”

“Why should I?” Yuuri sighs, drooping. “You can hardly call them songs anyway.”

“You just finished  _writing one._ “

“They don’t have instrumental accompaniment in the first place.”

“Well the last time I checked, a song refers to any set of words you can sing with,” Phichit says insistently. “ _I_  sing to them.”

“ _Terribly, ”_ Yuuri adds, earning a sound of protest from Phichit.

“How _dare_ you slander my vocal skills?” Phichit says in an obnoxiously over exaggerated posh accent. Yuuri chokes back a giggle. “We can’t be all figure skating, ballet dancing, singing songwriters, you know.”

“Which is why _you’re_  my figure skating, hamster loving best friend and, in addition to that, the best photographer _I_  know.”

Like him Phichit Chulanot is on a scholarship; his stunning split second shot of two birds sipping water on the bank, unaware of the coming crash of the waves won him an international photography contest a few years ago. Upon learning Phichit was an amateur photographer who mostly relied on observation, his street photography skills obtained from taking numerous pictures of Bangkok, and lots of luck, many international art schools took interest, including the one in Detroit where he and Yuuri currently resides. The original photo hangs on their wall in their room, just a few spaces away from Yuuri’s Viktor Nikiforov posters, which is fitting, Yuuri thinks, since it’s a surrealistic image right next to the most surreal person he has ever known. To this day, Yuuri finds the sight breath taking.

However, back at the present, Phichit and Yuuri find themselves startled when out of nowhere instrumental music loudly begins to play.

“Is that-“

“In Regards to Love: Agape,” Yuuri answers. “My audition piece.”

‘Out of nowhere’ turns out to be Yuuri’s phone, which, in the light of their conversation, has been momentarily forgotten.  Phichit’s eyes sparkle in interest.

“Is this for _Cupid and Psyche?_ ” Yuuri hums in affirmation. He had been playing the track in auto repeat for days.

 

_“You’ve all been given the same piece,” Celestino confirmed, a few days later after that fateful morning. “This isn’t the only version, however.”_

_“What do you mean?”_

_“While this tells of Psyche’s naivety, innocent beauty, and promise to devote unconditional love to her invisible husband, In Regards to Love: Eros is her awakening of passion; it is her defiant declaration to Aphrodite she is Love’s partner in every sense of the word. She is willing to do anything to get him back. In other words, she is his equal match.”_

_For some reason, those words didn’t sound unusual in Celestino’s mouth. Then again, he wouldn’t be a ballet instructor for nothing._

_“As this is still the first screening, you are not required to perform the other version.” Yuuri silently thanks his luck. At the moment, he couldn’t imagine embodying Eros, sexual love. If he were to really go through this, Yuuri ought to learn sooner or later, and fast. Curious, Yuuri plays the soundtrack given to him, the disk now inside one of Celestino’s old radios. Music fills the air._

_It’s-_

 

“-in Violin,” Phichit says, echoing Yuuri’s words from his conversation with Celestino. Phichit’s breathing hitches.

“Is it-“

Yuuri nods. In a sea of hundreds, thousands, _millions,_ Yuuri could always pick him out with ease. All he needed to do was catch a whisper of a bow gliding on strings, of wings unfolding and a blue eyed man soaring, and he knows who. He knows where.

 

_“Nikiforov,” Celestino hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve heard the rest of the soundtrack was composed by Taro Umebayeshi. But these two are his.”_

_Yuuri couldn’t hide his surprise. “Nikiforov?”_

_“Viktor Nikiforov, violin virtuoso and composer,” Celestino says, mistaking Yuuri’s query for ignorance. “Surely you know him?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Know, is an understatement._

 

“I’ve never heard of this before,” Phichit comments aloud, the piece reaching its climax. When you’re roommate happens to be a huge fan of a certain silver haired musician, you tend to pick a thing or two, including high tolerance for instrumental violin music and bird’s eye view on their discography. Then again Yuuri puts up with his Cheese and Oreo pizza deliveries and impromptu _Shall We Skate_  movie nights whenever Phichit feels homesick or stressed so all is fair.

“Well it’s relatively new, and the production is still in casting stage. They plan to announce it during promotion period, or so as Celestino tells me. So right now it’s all hush, hush.”

“Wow,” Phichit says, for lack of anything more coherent. Yuuri agrees with him. A quick glance at the wall clock and Yuuri realizes his break time is almost over. Yuuri starts to pack his things, hoping he wouldn’t be late for the next class.

“Aren’t you going to try, at the very least?” Phichit eventually asks, sensing Yuuri’s stance regarding the contest. “As they say, it’s a _once in a lifetime opportunity._ ”

“So is _this_ ,” Yuuri gestures towards himself and the open space. “Phichit, this might just be what I need. I’ve got a better chance here.”

Writing songs was a fairly new business he started around the age of sixteen, somewhere between ballet practices and surviving high school. At that age, Viktor Nikiforov had won the Junior Grand Prix Finals and made a name for himself in the international music community as someone to look forward too. On the other hand, Yuuri has been dancing ballet ever since he learned to walk.

“Well alright, if that’s what you want,” Phichit finally says, slumping in defeat. But as always, he quickly cheers up. “I’ll always be here to support you.”

“Thank you, Phichit.”  Yuuri says, meaning it. Together they leave the room.

“Where are you going?”

“The rink,” Phichit calls back, already walking the opposite direction, “I’d better make use of the free time to earn some cash.”

Yuuri waves his goodbyes, eyes trailing on Phichit’s retreating form. Alone, he lets out a shaky sigh.

If he cannot meet Viktor Nikiforov face to face, Yuuri might as well try his best to embody his music. It’s the least he can do.

 

 

“Is that the best you can do _?_! _”_

Viktor Nikiforov, violin virtuoso, award-winning composer, five times consecutive Grand Prix champion, screeches in disbelief. Makkachin, who is curled up beside him, jolts a little and Viktor winces as he pets the dog in apology. He has been scrolling the #NikiforovLoveandLife tag for _days_ and _Sweet Mother Russia-_

“’… _Now that I’m in town oh Honey, let’s get it down, I love you and you are my life, so let’s ride the stars tonight ,”_ Viktor reads out loud and then stops, quite abruptly as he realizes how done he was.

He shakes his head. He was honestly expecting something better, but Viktor should have known. The title was, after all, **_I’m In Heaven._**

Viktor scrolls down, skips two tracks all together since there probably isn’t much to expect from songs entitled  **_Drunk Tango_**  and **_Hot Springs._**  He reads the first few lines of **_Overcome,_** thinks of the title as promising, then after a few seconds of reading, groans.

“Are you even serious? Who in their right mind would climb the rooftop in a jealous daze– get this- _naked,_  to prove their ‘love and life’ of their worth? This is ridiculous. Right, Yuri?”

Yuri Plisetsky, also known as Russia’s rising star, self-anointed title of Ice Tiger, and One Second Away From Decking Viktor With Non-Existent Knife Shoes, sighs.

“Why am I even here?” Yuri eventually seethes, crossing his arms in distaste. Across the room Viktor gives him a look as if to say his reply was just stating the obvious.

“Second opinion, of course.”

“Since when did my opinion matter to you, you moron?”

“But don’t you think it’s absurd? Well it _is,_ even for me.” Viktor grimaces. He stares at his phone screen with mild horror etched on his face.

Yuri pointedly raises a single perfectly arched brow.

“Even for you?”

“Well, I know I could be a  _little_ bit dramatic sometimes-“

Yuri scoffs.

“-but not to _that_ extent.”

“Really? You strike me as the perfect idiot to do it for ‘love and life.’”

“Well _I_  wouldn’t,” Viktor says with a certainty he has never had in a while. “Not me, nor any versions of me that exist in this universe. I mean, what kind of _idiot_ would scale a _building_ just to prove how goddamn flexible he was to his fiancée? _Surely_ not me.”

Somewhere in this universe, a person is laughing manically at this statement.

Viktor, unfortunately, cannot hear them.

Yuri, unfortunately, could, because he is _also_ laughing manically at this statement.

Quite audibly.

Thankfully this particular kind of laughter, the one that belongs to a certain fifteen year old Ice Tiger, Viktor can hear perfectly. So he does what he deems to be the most acceptable reaction in this situation-

He pouts.

“Why is this so important to you?” Yuri somehow manages to say in between his guffaws. “Can’t you just write the words yourself?”

_Yes Viktor, why._

Here is the thing about expectations. They exist for two reasons:

1) It has never happened before and so anything is possible and-

 2) It has happened so many times before and so anything but is impossible.

When Yuri Plisetsky, tired from all the shouting and nagging he had been forcibly subjected for the past few hours, asked Viktor this particular question, he expected a dismal response, or a noncommittal gesture. It was what he always did. Anything else is impossible.

But expectations have a second nature: they don’t always align with reality.

“I used to think when it comes to the matters of the heart, music speaks for itself,” Viktor says softly, all traces of mirth gone. His gaze is distant, as if searching for something he can only see.  Yuri finds himself shockingly silenced, unexpectedly struck by how honest Viktor sounds.

“Then I’ve realized it isn’t always enough.” Viktor’s eyes suddenly pierce him.  Yuri’s breathing hitches. If Viktor’s eyes were strings of the violin, they would be discordant; the line between near perfection and absolute destruction, so thin it can be barely seen in the surface.

When Yuri expects him to lie, like the forgetful uncaring bastard he is, Viktor instead tells him the truth.

“Sometimes, you need words, and the words need to be right.”

As Yuri Plisetsky finds out that afternoon, the truth is so much worse. It is uncertain, scarier than anything. When someone lies, at least one of you has the bliss of ignorance. But in the face of truth, especially one unexpectedly handed to you, no one has that kind of luxury.

You must learn to carry the burden of harsh reality. 

There is no escape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a man standing in the middle of ballet studio.

How long he has been there, no one knows. His head is down, and his eyes are closed, his hands clasped together right next to his heart. His expression is solemn.

He is not alone. His fellow ballet students, his Italian ballet choreographer and teacher Celestino, and even Phichit who has resolved to take photos in the corner, is in attendance. In his relaxed concentrated state, he does not notice them.

Then, the first few notes of an ethereal song begin to play.

The man looks up, opens his eyes.

They are soft and expressive, brown and warm as the Earth.

He begins to move, and to a trained eye he is doing positions, jumps and spins with names. But all of that is rendered insignificant.

This man? He does not just dance.

_He tells a story._

But this time, there is no wrinkled notebook, or trusted pen. This time he only has his arms and his legs. They will tell you of Pysche’s longing, her beauty almost unmatched, her innocent desire to connect with someone, _anyone_ , in this world. They will tell you of how she meets her husband, the one so feared even by the gods, and how she cannot see him.

But for every spin, they will say,  “ _This is her changing her thoughts_. _"_ Every jump,  “ _This is her taking a leap of faith."_  Pysche has felt her husband’s unconditional love – _Agape_ \- and so she will embody it.

This, she vows.

The music ends to Yuuri’s final pose, his chest heaving, and a smatter of applause.

“Go Yuuri!” Phichit shouts from his corner side, waving more than one camera around like a proud mother at a recital.

“I can’t wait to see you tomorrow!” Two other students, Dolores and Maira, chorus after. Yuuri turns to Celestino and the man gives him thumbs up.

Yuuri grins.

 

_I think I’m happy._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Oh my, Yuuri, you should have _seen_ yourself,” Phichit says much, much later, now in the privacy of their rooms. “Actually, you could. I took several photos of you. Also videos. They’re _amazing_. ”

Yuuri laughs. Knowing Phichit, they certainly are.

Just then, his phone rings.

It’s Mari.

“ _Moshi, moshi, ”_ Yuuri says after excusing himself, finally glad to have the excuse to speak Japanese. “How are you?”

Here is the thing about expectations. They exist for two reasons:

1) It has happened so many times before and so anything but is impossible.

2) It has never happened before and so anything is possible.

When Yuuri Katsuki, tired from all the dancing and performing he had been forcibly subjecting himself for the past few hours, asked Mari this particular question, he doesn’t know what to expect.  His elder sister never called him before, not without texting him first if he was free, especially not when it happened to be the day before something big, like the day of _Cupid and Psyche_ audition. Anything is possible.

But as always, expectations have a second nature: they don’t always align with reality.

When Yuuri expects her to say everything is fine, as she always does, Mari tells him otherwise.

“Yuuri, I’m so sorry.”

“What?” Yuuri clutches the phone frantically, heart sinking instantly with dread. "What's wrong?"

“Vicchan,”Mari finally says, shakily, and then begins to quietly sob.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“He’s dead.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[ **BLOODBATH** ](https://soundcloud.com/user-897730895-906129001/bloodbath-sdw)

 

 

 

>  
> 
> Refrain
> 
> _Don’t you dare you cry_
> 
> _Ain’t courage your name?_
> 
> _You’ve been here one too_
> 
> _Many times_
> 
> _Here we are again-_
> 
> Verse
> 
> _This is the aftermath_
> 
> _Just another face in the crowd_
> 
> _This is the bloodbath_
> 
> _You scream and shout_
> 
> _Yet there’s no sound_
> 
> _Except that heart that beats_
> 
> _And tears that threaten_
> 
> _To fall_
> 
> _Don’t fall, don’t fall, don’t fall_
> 
> Refrain
> 
> _Don’t you dare cry,_
> 
> _Ain’t courage your name?_
> 
> _You’ve been here one too_
> 
> _Many times_
> 
> _Here we are again-_
> 
> _Don’t you dare cry,_
> 
> _You must take the blame_
> 
> _You don’t deserve this_
> 
> _Little respite_
> 
> _Here we are again_
> 
> _In the bloodbath,_
> 
> _In the bloodbath,_
> 
> _In the bloodbath_
> 
> _In the bloodbath,_
> 
> _In the bloodbath,_
> 
> _In the bloodbath_
> 
> _-_ Bloodbath, March 21
> 
> YK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The award winning photo I described as Phichit’s actually exists. It was taken by Chaiyot Chanyam and won Open Competition Split Second, 2016 Sony World Photography Awards. He, like Phichit, also happens to come from Thailand. I also got bits of his interview to explain how “Phichit” was able to take the photo. The photo’s really breath taking, btw.


	2. searching for the answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. It's been _months._ There was more stuff supposed to happen in this chapter's original outline but I got carried away. Unbetaed for now. But here it is. Enjoy!

On the morning of the  _Cupid and Psyche_ audition, Yuuri Katsuki wakes up to find the first thing inside his head is not whispers of bubbling anxiety. Nor is it the usual lingering taunts of doubt and self-pity. Instead, it comes as a simple, but ominous truth-

_Vicchan is dead._

With a quick upward movement the covers unfurl, the rising tides pulling the reluctant sea from slumber's sandy embrace. Yuuri sits up, and he presses his hand on his chest, just above his beating heart. It feels heavy in a way it has never been before, the sinking of his soul small, and yet all –consuming not even the greatest uncertainties he'd faced can ever achieve.

 _This must be grief,_ Yuuri thinks, and allows the word to settle underneath his skin, beneath his aching bones, and deep into the crooks of his entire being. Yuuri is no stranger to death, but there is a difference between strange fiction and harsh reality.

There is no escape.

If Yuuri were to close his eyes – and he does, for a fraction of a moment – he can still see him clearly, even after all these years. Vicchan, his beloved poodle, named after the man he had (and still) revered the most,is – no,  _was_ -the friend he didn't know he need. He was small and brown but his barks were loud, fur so soft and curly that to run them through with Yuuri's fingers, reddened from a day's work with the barre stand, brought the latter immediate comfort. Vicchan may be nothing like the dog his namesake has, but he is Yuuri's, and with his existence, he has brought Yuuri happiness.

He has brought a star so high within Yuuri's reach.

Yuuri opens his eyes once more. Without his glasses, the world is nothing but blurry figures and saturated images. But a world without Vicchan-

 _-would still be the same,_ his thoughts rudely interrupt.

_When was the last time you've seen him?_

Yuuri's hand reaches towards his phone and with a few presses, unlocks it. The monochromatic digits tell him he woke a few minutes earlier than the alarm, something that doesn't happen very often. Then he sees it: an image of Vicchan curled on the  _tatami_ mat – eyes closed, asleep, unaware to the rare afternoon rush in the family  _onsen_. Mari had sent him the photo months ago without warning, captioning it with a simple " _Our adorable dog_." Upon seeing it for the first time, Yuuri felt warm affection cloak his weary shoulders and sore worn feet. Somehow the pixels remind him why he is here six thousand miles away in the land of the free, and what awaits him back in the open seas and the sleepy town of Hasetsu.  _It only seems fitting_ , Yuuri thinks back then,  _to set the home screen page to something that reminds him of home._

Yet as Yuuri stares at the image of Vicchan curled on the  _tatami_ mat – eyes closed, asleep, unaware- he cannot help but let his teary eyes blur the rest of the world, until there is nothing but momentary darkness and the  _heaviness_ on his chest that never seems to end.

Suddenly, the phone begins to vibrate in his already shaking hands. It is followed by three successive high pitch sounds that nag him of the day that lies ahead.

In that very moment, Yuuri realizes another truth:

It doesn't matter whether death comes with a scythe in the shadows of the night, a doctor's declaration in the first light of dawn, or careless speeding cars in sleepy town roads.

The world may tilt its axis, but it continues to spin.

It does not wait for those who cannot keep pace.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_Yuuri is five years old, and it's his third time on the rink. He tries to spin._

_This time, he does not fall._

_"Yuuri, that's amazing!" Yuuko clasps her hands together, and Yuuri smiles, chest beaming with pride._

_"Really?"_

_"Ha, yeah, out of the way fatty!" Takeshi taunts out of nowhere, and with one firm nudge, Yuuri is down on the ice._

_"Hey, don't be so mean!" Yuuko scolds amidst Takeshi's laughter and Yuuri's silent growls. Eventually Takeshi helps him up, after Yuuko's constant pestering._

_"So, what do you think?" She asks Yuuri much, much later, eyes shining and expression hopeful. Yuuko, best friend and two years his senior, has pulled him firmly aside, pony tail bobbing from left to right. Just a few steps ahead Takeshi- Yuuri's sometimes best friend and mostly enemy- kicks a rock on the pavement. They are on their way home from Ice Castle Hasetsu. Behind them, the sun bursts a strange shade of golden yellow._

_Yuuri pauses, thinking of how figure skating is like ballet, except cold air wraps around his skin. It's as if he is floating, just on solid water._

_It's as if he is free._

_"I like it," Yuuri eventually says, offering a small shy smile._

_Yuuko grins._  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


"Hey kid, aren't you supposed to be somewhere?"

Yuuri immediately skids to a halt, startled.

"How did you know?" he calls back.

"Phichit told me," was the gruff reply. Yuuri skates towards the edge of the rink after catching a few breaths. Now closer, Yuuri could make out a familiar face out of the fuzziness.

"Yuuri, I didn't know you were so forgetful. I've told you last time, you  _don't_ need to come here today. I'd even pay you, if that's what you're worried about. You'd miss your audition!"

A tall but not imposing figure, Nera Aviv – former Olympic figure skater and owner of Detroit's Skating Club, huffs impatiently.

"I know, I just thought..."

_I just thought for once, it would be nice to know how it is to feel free._

"Oh Yuuri," Nera uncrosses her arms, her expression suddenly sober, "I'm so sorry."  _Phichit told me,_ her eyes seem to say,as if it wasn't obvious.

"Well, I guess I have to go-" Yuuri stammers, barely managing to wear his glasses and his skate guards as he hastily makes his retreat. Behind him Nera protests but Yuuri doesn't hear her, not with the thoughts inside his head; not with his heart sinking on his chest; not with his eyes starting to wet, not when his ears seem to hear a non-existent bark while his mind constantly asks-

 _Why?_  
  
  
  
  
  
  


" _Yuuri," Yuuko sings, dragging him away from the empty rink. "You've got to see this."_

_"Wait- why?" Yuuri splutters as he surrenders his arm to Yuuko's determined pulls. Yuuri feels lost but he does not miss Yuuko's excited grin. It isn’t long before Yuuri finds himself inside the locker room. Already sitting is Takeshi, arms crossed, a frown on his face._

_"Why are we even here?" Yuuko urges Yuuri to sit instead, ignoring Takeshi’s groan. Yuuri does, though he still feels out of depth. His confusion must have registered on his face as Yuuko quickly apologizes before continuing._

_"Remember when I said I've been searching for music?"_

_Yuuri nods. Now at the age of fourteen, Yuuko has started competing in local figure skating competitions. She has two silvers and a bronze on her name, but this season she hopes to finally bag gold. The best among their age group here, it's no wonder why she's hailed the Ice Madonna of Hasetsu._

_"Have you found it?" Yuuri adds, a moment later. Now twelve but almost thirteen, Yuuri is starting to consider following her footsteps._

_"No," Yuuko sheepishly replies, "but I have something better." She then shifts to the side, and for the first time, Yuuri notices the TV screen and the speakers in front of him. The whole thing looks bulky and ancient. What's more interesting is the scene that plays in front of him._

_The screen shows what seems to be a theatre house, though the camera lingers on an empty stage. Just then, it slowly pans out, and lo and behold- a spectacular crowd._

_"What am I supposed to watch? There's no-"_

_"Shush, Takeshi, just you wait and oh, look Yuuri, here he comes-"_

_Yuuri leans forward and squints. A young man enters the stage, probably older by him by only a few years. He is welcomed with a brief round of applause. At this point Yuuri doesn't know much about this man apart from his long flowing hair that reaches his waist, and its color - so light and otherworldly- the shade can only be close to silver. His name has already been lost in the air, and there is only so much a commentator can do to fill the little spaces before a performance._

_Still Yuuri immediately finds himself captivated, though he does not know why._

_The young man reaches for his violin and bow. He positions himself: a tilt of a head, a hand on the violin's neck, and eyes serenely closed._

_He stands alone, and yet the crowd has fallen silent. Even Takeshi has stopped his incessant moaning._

_A collective intake of anticipated breath, and then, with one swift motion, the young man begins..._

_...and suddenly Yuuri is not here, sitting in a rusty bench of a worn down rink. He is not here, in a sleepy town called Hasetsu with its strange sunsets and soaring seagulls. Yuuri's feet are planted on the ground but he is here and everywhere, suspended in the air of awe. He finds his breath stolen away by the exquisite rise and beautiful fall of the notes, and discovers he does not mind at all. Yuuri has never felt this light, never felt this free since the first time he successfully spun with his skates a few years ago._

_How long Yuuri has been sitting there? He doesn't know. In the face of such greatness, time is rendered insignificant._

_For the first time in his life, Yuuri is speechless._

_How do you describe a musical experience?_

_"Viktor Nikiforov," Yuuko suddenly announces, the name said with an air of declaration. She turns to Yuuri, eyes glinting with conviction. "Isn't he amazing?"_

_Yuuri continues to watch the screen starry eyed as music continues to fill the locker room. The heartfelt notes are thick, golden honey flowing in their ears. Not even the ancient sound systems could deter its sweet assault. On the screen, the young man continues to play with the violin and bow: two separate entities, but in the hands of an artist, an instrument to make something whole._

_But this young man- he is not just an artist._

_He is a genius; a brilliant, shining star in the darkness of the night._

_He is **Viktor Nikiforov**  and he doesn't just make something whole-_

_He owns it, and creates something beautiful._

_"And I wish," Yuuri quietly thinks, in the privacy of his bed and the four bare walls of his bedroom a few hours later. "I wish I could create something beautiful too."_  
  
  
  
  


 

The moment Yuuri entered the stage to the eyes of many and to the sound of silence; he knew it was going to be a disaster.

This is not to say Detroit Opera House was devoid of people. On the contrary, the seats were filled with hundreds of ballet dancer hopefuls and their supporters. Sitting in front on a separate platform located in the center are the four people Yuuri needs to impress, needs to  _convince_ that he is not just a dime in a dozen ballet dancer but the perfect embodiment of  _Psyche_. He does not recognize any of their faces, now set passive and expressionless.

But somehow, that does not matter. Somehow the fact that Yuuri is  _finally_ here, after all the blood, sweat, tears he had poured in five years, does not register in his typically anxious head. He has made difficult choices to be where he is today and now, his desire is within an arm's reach.

Yet as Yuuri positions himself: head bowed, and hands on his sides, he cannot help but wonder if it was all worth it. Fame and beauty comes with a cost, and Yuuri spent so much time and effort to just even get a glimpse of it. But now his eyes are closed - not in calm serenity- but in the turbulent grief that consumes his heart.

Yuuri may stand in front a crowd.

But in this pivotal moment- he is truly alone.

The music starts, and Yuuri barely registers the ethereal notes play. He looks up, and opens his eyes. They are soft and sad with regret, wet and brown as the mourning Earth. He continues to do what he practiced several times before, the movements deeply engrained into his body. But as Yuuri's hand rises, as if he was reaching out to something he could only see, he realizes this:

In the end, all we have are moments.

What we forever lose in time, we can never bring back.

_Yuuri could never see Vicchan again._

It is this untimely revelation that everything begins to

f

a

l

l

a

p

a

r

t

.

To a trained eye he tries to do positions, jumps and spins with names. But Yuuri falls down one too many times, and all he has done to be here is rendered insignificant.

 _Yet this man?_  He does not just dance.

He tells a story – albeit a different one.

Gone are the thoughts of Pysche in Yuuri's head. There is longing, but it one that can never be fulfilled. There is the fervent wish to speak words that matter, but they can no longer be heard.  _In Regards to Love: Agape_ may be a song about unconditional love, but now Yuuri's heart sings a different tune: a song of regret. Yuuri can no longer embody  _agape_ , not when he took for granted what matters the most.

This, he knows.

And so

h e b r e a k s.

When the music ends to Yuuri's final pose, there is no smatter of applause. There is only heavy and unending silence. Yuuri cannot bare to look up at their appalled and surely disappointed faces, not with his breathes heaving, not with his heart sinking on his chest; not with his eyes starting to wet, not when his ears seem to hear a non-existent bark-

Yuuri bows, and leaves the stage in the same way he entered- quick, and quiet. Yet it is only when he walks away and moves back to his assigned seat, that Yuuri acknowledges he has truly lost.  


 

 

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** DETROIT UNIVERSITY CENTRAL **

_Your Unofficial Source of the Latest News in Michigan’s Best_

ABOUT| CAMPUS NEWS | OPINION | SPORTS | **ENTERTAINMENT** | ETC.

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**“Shanghai Blade” to premiere in Beijing** – Howard Wang

          Directed and produced by Xiao Yi, this highly anticipated Chinese-Hongkong blockbuster is set to premiere in Beijing, and local Chinese theatres, Wednesday. Starring _Inferno’s_ Guang-Hong Ji as Huo An, he plays a government agent…

 

 **JJ Leroy and Isabelle Yang engaged** \- Joe Johnson

          Lead singer of Canadian rock band _Cast Wheels,_ Jean-Jacques Leroy, announces engagement with part time model and long-time girlfriend Isabelle Yang, yesterday. Ever since it was revealed Yang was a member of JJ Girls, the lead singer’s…

 

 **Yuri Plisetsky wins Junior Grand Prix Aria** – Hisashi Mooroka

          Russia’s Yuri Plisetsky defends title by winning second consecutive gold in this year’s Junior Grand Prix Aria. His adaptation of Matsushiba’s _Piano Concerto in B Minor: Allegro Appassionato_ ended with Fox Theatre on their feet…

 

 ** _Cupid and Psyche_** **audition hits Detroit**   - Dolores Garcia

          Auditions and casting calls for _Cupid and Psyche,_ Richard Lang‘s passion project, has finally reached the land of opportunity. Indeed, it is a chance no aspiring ballet danseur should miss. Intending to feature an all-male cast production…

 

 

 **#NikiforovLoveandLifeSC drawing to a close** – Vivian Chance

          It only seems yesterday since Viktor Nikiforov announced his song writing contest out of the blue. But surprise, there is only five days left. We here in Detroit University Central went through the tags, and here is our top…      

[ **1** ][2][3][4][5][6]…

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** CUPID AND PSYCHE AUDITION– Live * **

3, 800+ views

Chat

 **@naaakikita** | and that’s a wrap! Congratulations to those who made it!

 **@MOB** -| AHHH YES!

 **@ANGka55** | Congrats everyone! I’m so glad cheekbones is in.  :3

 **@Toto$$** | **@ANGka55** his name’s Benedict. Didn’t catch the last name tho

 **@Han_an** | YAAAS YO GO MR. THIGHS #ded

 **@ANGka55** **|@Toto$$** Tnx. Will stalk him.

 **@HihiYah** |That Japanese guy though. (っ˘̩╭╮˘̩)っ

 **@NSA123k** | **@ANGka55** how are you gonna do it? @Hihiyah IKR?

 **@anyaa** | **@HihiYah** OH YEAH it was painful to watch

 **@ANGka55** | **@NSA123k** I HAVE MY WAYS

 **@TWN. |** I heard he was one of the promising ones.

@ **Toto$$** | Jap dude is Katsuki Yuuri. We go to the same uni.

 **@0ngHND** |@HihiYah it was really heartbreaking

 **@CNDJa3** |CONGRATS TO EVERYONE!

 **@NSA123k** | I’ve been cringing in second hand embarrassment

 **@HihiYa** | **@Toto$$** thanks. I’m no expert but just…his falls #ouch

 **@ANGka55** | Oh YEAH him. Katsuki Yuuri should stop doing ballet.

 **@lala_BSN** | ^^

@ **PROi2** | **@ANGka55** yeah I mean maybe it’s not meant for him

 **@ANGka55** |like srsly do u think with so many mistakes he’s got a chance

 **@Toto$$** | @ANGka55 can’t he just have a bad day?

 **@Han_an |** better try next time sry losers lol

 **@ANGka55** | @Toto$$ he may but this is C&P auditions

 **@anyaa** |@ANGka55 oh my god give him a break

 **@ANGka55** | @anyaa he almost had one but he fckd it up tbh

 **@Kpt.TN.** | Congrats James! So proud of you. <3

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

“Yuuri! What did I tell you? Stop reading the comments! Let’s go back!”

“Katsuki Yuuri should stop doing ballet,” Yuuri slowly reads aloud, ignoring Celestino’s failing attempts to catch his attention. Here they are on the hallway, the passing crowd oblivious to the stream of reassurances from an Italian man for his Japanese failure of a student. Yuuri has already worn his blue track suit over his leggings, the familiar baggy cloth providing a sense of comfort when Yuuri feels anything but.

He reads the comment again, this time for himself.

_Katsuki Yuuri should stop doing ballet._

The words are both familiar and foreign to his ears. It has never crossed his mind, not once even in the most tiring and frustrating of days. To him ballet was like a stubborn star in the sky; a fixed point that never really left, even when darkness and clouds of doubt tried to hide it away. But now, it’s as if it’s falling, falling down the Earth. Yuuri knew he _failed so much_ he didn’t just fall. He spiralled all the way down in one fiery, colossal, mess.

 “Where are you going?” Yuuri walks away, turning his back to Celestino. He wants to go somewhere, _anywhere,_ and his feet lead him inside the men’s bathroom. Now alone, he pulls out his phone and puts it on dial.

 _“Moshi, moshi Okaasan,”_ Yuuri quietly greets, now inside one of the men’s cubicle. There is no one to see him barely pull himself together, save for the red obnoxious cubicle door and a hundred shark-teeth gleaming tiles.

 _“Hello Yuuri,”_ his mother replies, her familiar voice punctuated by a yawn.  Yuuri freezes.

“Did I wake you up?”

“Not really, I was about to sleep. We were watching your live audition.”

“WHAT? Really?! Oh my, that was so embarrassing.”

To say Katsuki Yuuri is mortified is an understatement.

“Yes, of course, we have to,” his mother warmly reassures him. “We’d always support you, no matter what.”

_We’d always support you no matter what._

An invisible hand reaches towards Yuuri’s chest and _pulls._ Hard.

 “ _Okaasan...”_ He turns away. Another set of shark-teeth gleaming tiles smile at him. They slowly blur in a haze of unshed tears.

“I’m sorry.” A pause. “I messed up.”

Yuuri doesn’t wait for his mother’s reply. His fingers barely press the end call button when his arm goes slack, the beeping sound echoing within the room.  He looks down and sees more of those endless squares, those perfect precise things he couldn’t be.

For once, Yuuri allows himself to feel the impact of his fall. For once, Yuuri releases the unshed tears to drown in pools of sorrow, grief, and regret. A wretched sob manages to escape before Yuuri covers the rest in his shaking hand. Quick breaths and bitter tears continue to spill, spill down the blurry tiles.

 _“Let me drown,”_ he thinks, “ _let me drown and disappear underneath the tiles and my tears.”_

A sudden _swoosh_ of silent air is all the warning Yuuri gets before the red door shakes, and a loud smack jolts Yuuri out of his misery. 

Yuuri moves to open the door, an apology forming on his lips when he freezes.

A non-existent metal guitar rift screeches through his ears.

There is a boy standing in front of him, probably no older than fifteen, and his hands are firmly tucked inside the pockets of his jacket. His hood is up, but a few strands of his golden hair spill out, landing flat on his shoulders.  If Yuuri isn’t mistaken, this boy is no other than this year’s _Junior Grand Prix Aria_ winner – Yuri Plisetsky. And for some unfathomable reason, the Russian punk’s sharp green eyes are staring into his very soul as if _Yuuri’s_ very existence has caused him great offense.

_What the hell?_

_“Hey,”_ the Russian punk drawls, bony finger pointing at Yuuri’s chest, “Next season, I plan to take the world by storm with my very first album.”

Yuuri’s brow crunch in confusion; he is very much aware of Yuri Plisetsky’s career and existence. But this is the first time he has met him in person.

“I don’t care who you are,” Plisetsky continues, not giving Yuuri a chance to respond, “but if you aren’t going to do something about this, you better give up and retire because I do not want to share my name with some LOSER!”

The force of his voice shocks Yuuri into silence, the exclamation still ringing in his ears. Blowing a stray hair away from his face, Plisetsky looks at him one last time, eyes glinting, searching for what he could only see. He then leaves in a blur of tiger printed sneakers.

Yuuri barely registers the main door slamming. Now truly alone, he feels confused more than ever.  So many questions knock in his head. But there’s nothing Yuuri could do. He could only stare at the emptiness and hundred gleaming tiles, smiling at him.

 

 

 

 

_We’ll always support you._

_The last time Yuuri heard those very words, his feet were firmly planted on the ground, almost at edge of the doorstep. His hand was not holding the barre stand but instead, a luggage handle. He was leaving._

_“We’ll always support you,” his mother said when she first heard the acceptance letter and the scholarship offer- Detroit, of all places. At that time Yuuri was nervous for their reactions. He was elated of course, when he received the mail. Okay, he was high in shock, disbelief, denial, and confusion but even that’s too much emotions for him so he thought best settled with this. Elation: the culmination of years of training, and the opportunity to become **more.** Naturally Yuuri first broke the news to Minako-sensei (who, as his ballet teacher, was naturally ecstatic) and then Yuuko (who was obviously excited, and in proxy, told Takeshi who surprisingly gave Yuuri a supportive shoulder bump.) _

_But accepting doesn’t just mean pursuing professional ballet while juggling college on a foreign land. It means one less person to help around the onsen. It means more money sent to be spent abroad. It means leaving_ – _not just Hasetsu’s sleepy seas -but Japan’s green mountains and rising suns, in exchange for grey streets and reflective oceans._

_One word of disapproval from any of his parents and his sister, and Yuuri would’ve immediately back down. Yuuri would immediately agree it’s a stupid thing to do (and honestly, there’s a part of him that still think it does.) Why say goodbye to a comfortable, predictable life in the pursuit of the greater, uncertain unknown?_

_But none of that happens of course, because upon hearing her son’s words, and seeing his fumbling hands, his darting eyes, Katsuki Hiroko said yes. Toshiya, his father, naturally follows suit. It has always been this way – his father, and mother._

_Now, Hiroko says it again, when Yuuri’s  hand no longer hold hers (when his hand no longer needs them as he used before – an anchor in a sea of uncertainty.)_

_“We’ll always support you.” Hiroko says, enveloping her only son in a warm embrace. His family isn’t much for displays of affection. This catches him offguard. But the thing is, Yuuri is **leaving** and he doesn’t know when he’ll be coming back. Yuuri tries to commit his mother’s warmth and small frame in his memory, the taste of her heavenly katsudon, the scent of her cherry blossom hair._

_“Thank you, Okasaan,” Yuuri somehow mumbles in between, pressing closer. Around him his father smiles, and Mari, his sister, nods quietly. Yuuri then feels something small nudging his leg. He tries to ignore it at first, but the nudge turns into tiny, insisting whines. Yuuri is forced to break his hug with his mother. He looks down._

_Yuuri laughs as he picks up his friend in one gentle scoop, the latter’s tongue currently out._

_“I’m sorry, I couldn’t bring you Vicchan,” Yuuri says. Adding one more living baggage is costly, not to mention the amount of paperwork. But how he wishes he could. How he wishes he could bring a piece of Vicchan to carry, wherever he may go._

_Flight tickets are expensive._

_“I’ll miss you,” Yuuri confesses, and it comes out as a half sob. Does Vicchan know he is leaving? Vicchan wags his tail in reply._

_“I’ll take care of him,” Mari quips out of nowhere. Yuuri sends her a grateful look. He asked her to send pictures of him. It isn’t much, but it will do – for now._

_“Don’t worry,” Yuuri brings Vicchan close to his chest. He runs his fingers through his fur – so curly, so soft, and so brown – and immediately feels comfort. “I’ll be back. I promise,” he then whispers. Vicchan barks in response. It is loud._

_When Yuuri finally, truly leaves his house with Minako in tow (she will be accompanying him, but only until the train station), he looks back one last time. His parents and sister (who all cannot leave the onsen unmanned and so must stay behind) wave.  Yuuri waves back at his family, and looks at Vicchan one last time, the dog carried by his sister._

_“Vicchan, please wait for me,” Yuuri quietly thinks. Wait for me, and when I come back, I will be better._

_Yuuri then turns his back, but not before seeing Vicchan. He wag its tail back and forth, pink tongue out, and brown eyes shine as if to say, “I will.”_

_That was the last time Yuuri saw Vicchan alive._

 

 

 

 

 

All days, no matter how long or troublesome, must end. That is how life is.  You fall, you break, but in the end, you are left alone while the rest moves on. The world may tilt its axis but it continues to spin.

Today, Yuuri Katsuki decides to go home – alone.

“Are you sure? I can drive you back,” Celestino offers. Perhaps _home_ is not the right word for college dormitories. But here, in Detroit, it’s the closest one Yuuri has.

“I can manage it,” Yuuri replies.  He knows Celestino has somewhere to go, judging by his fidgeting feet and not so subtle glances at his watch. Thankfully the Italian man doesn’t press, sighing in defeat. “See you then?”

Yuuri gives a terse nod. They separate ways, Celestino to his Ford parked around the corner, and Yuuri – the nearest bus stop. If Minako were here – _oh god, Minako_ – she would’ve scolded him for his current slouching back, his terrible form. _“This is not how a danseur should walk,”_ she’d say. _“A danseur, no matter the weight of the world, should walk with grace and pride.”_

Unfortunate for her, Minako is not here _. Does he even have the right to be called a ballet danseur?_ With that thought in mind, Yuuri’s shoulders roll  even more.

His is pocket vibrates, and Yuuri stops. It’s a text from Phichit; he says sorry for not being able to see the audition live. _Probably for the best,_ Yuuri thinks, though his relief is only momentary. Yuuri realizes it only takes a few seconds in Google for him to find the live audition link, a few minutes before Phichit would see the failure that he is.

Yuuri continues to walk. Ahead, neon signs and greying skies are reduced to bare impressions, fleeting memories already forgotten the second they pass. The world around him is blurred, but it isn’t due to his  imperfect eyes slowly drenching themselves. Yuuri, having the misfortune of crying a few moments ago, realizes he is no longer at the verge of tears. Rather, it is this _sinking feeling_ that has been on his chest ever since he learned Vicchan is dead.

Vicchan is dead.

_Do not drown from this sinking feeling; let it all out-_

-and out of his mouth, Yuuri breathes:

_How long have you waited for me to come home?_

His eyes widen. He repeats it again, this time drawing words out like pulling sown thread. Finding the right tune is always a tricky thing. Sometimes it takes a few more tries, and sometimes, like times like these, it just _fits._

It is here that the bus finally arrives, announcing its approach in groaning wheels and wheezing doors. Yuuri barely manages to scramble his way inside. Once seated, he immediately pulls out his phone and types.

_How long have you waited for me to come home?_

People had asked him, “How do you do it?”

 

“How do you do what?”  Yuuri would ask in return, brows crunching in confusion.

But here’s the thing. It’s when tears are no option, the comfort of food is out of the question, and when he could no longer dance, not when he has fallen so much, he writes. He writes, and writes, and writes. It is one that wouldn’t judge, would welcome him with open arms regardless of how weak, tired, and broken he is.

But it’s when everything is _just too much_ , and words aren’t enough, that Yuuri, for some inexplicable reason-

 

 -begins to sing.

 

 

 

**THE VIRTUOSO**

Home > Artists >Artist News

 

**Viktor Nikiforov to End World Tour in Tokyo’s Opera Palace**

Hisashi Morooka

>  
> 
> After months on the road, iconic violinist and composer Viktor Nikiforov arrives in Haneda Airport, today, for his final stop in his world tour to be held at the Opera Palace, New National Theatre, Tokyo, Japan.
> 
> The world tour – which premiered in home-country Sochi, Russia December 8 – was a sold out event and well received by critics and avid supporters. Featuring beloved, award-winning pieces from _Nights in St. Petersburg_ and collaborations he has produced for various media, Nikiforov continues to surprise us with his creative genius and artistry.  Most recently, his announcement of a song writing competition with the theme _Love and Life_ caught the world off-guard.
> 
> For tickets, visit [**www.japanconcerttickets.com/Nikiforov**](http://www.japanconcerttickets.com/Nikiforov)

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> **Comments • [23]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes  
> [1] It is apparently, canon, that Guang Hong Ji “hopes to one day meet a Hollywood celebrity, and also to someday be one.” So in this fic, I made him one.  
> [2] There are a lot of metas and Easter eggs hidden in this chapter. Writing the social media parts was fun. I may include more of them in the future.  
> [3] This chapter heavily focuses on the aftermath of Vicchan’s death and how Yuuri reacts to it. I felt it was necessary to explore Yuuri’s grief in such depths, in the hopes the reader may understand where he is coming from in the future. Don’t worry, we’ll see more of Viktor in the next chapter. Updates will slow, but I hope you’ll stick with me till the end. Thank you!
> 
> Until then,  
> Vicky

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first fic I’ve written in a long, long while. Please bear with me. I really tried my best doing research for this fic, but there might be inaccuracies at times. Please be ready to suspend your disbelief, once in a while, for the sake of plot.
> 
> I really appreciate kudos, and comments, and would love to know what you think. You can reach me out over my Tumblr (@skulldeaded) and my Twitter (@sassygeek101). Thank you!


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